


Dinner and Diatribes

by KitschyKit



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), BDSM Scene, Consensual Non-Consent, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Dirty Talk, Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Drunk Sex, Established Relationship, Excessive use of petnames, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Power Dynamics, Rape Fantasy, Safewords, Sub Crowley (Good Omens), Threats of Rape/Non-Con, everything is consensual and also they're married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:13:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22513807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitschyKit/pseuds/KitschyKit
Summary: Aziraphale has plans for him, Crowley knows: why else drag him to a party neither of them want to be at? Why order him to behave himself, only to then turn around and tell him toenjoyhimself, try the wine dear boy, it’ssplendid—It’s the set up for a fantasy, a line of dominoes ready to fall as Aziraphale sets up the pieces; and the push comes in the form of a-few-too-many drinks, and an angel that refuses to be denied.A love letter to consensual non-con, where Crowley gets drunk at a party, and Aziraphale takes him home, and takes advantage.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 439
Collections: AJ’s personal faves, Good Omens Big Bang 2019, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Top Aziraphale Recs





	Dinner and Diatribes

**Author's Note:**

> For the Good Omens 2019 Big Bang
> 
> Please be advised that while this is a pre-established fantasy, it does involve one of the characters being drunk through most of the fic and all of the sex, which is why there is a dubious consent tag.

“Still don’t see why we couldn't have driven ourselves, angel.” 

“You’ll see why when we get there.” 

It was the same response he’d gotten before, and Crowley fully turned his head to glare. 

Aziraphale hummed and reached over to pat his knee, his hand warm and solid in the dark interior of the cab. “Trust me, my dear, it will be worth it.” 

Crowley—already crabby because of the cold, thick wine-red scarf bunched over his nose and mouth— just snorted, and slouched further into the seat in what he probably thought was a good sulk, but Aziraphale just categorized as a rather adorable pout. 

The silent sulk lasted all of thirty seconds. “Don’t see why we’re going to a bloody party anyway. Do you even know these people?” 

“Peripherally,” Aziraphale responded, which made Crowley tense, suspicious. He _knew_ that tone. He also realized rather belatedly that Aziraphale’s hand had rather possessively moved to his mid-thigh. 

“Aziraphale what—“

The hand on his thigh pulled away, and Aziraphale turned to look out the window, acting surprised. “Oh look, we've arrived. Be a dear and pay won’t you?” 

“ _Aziraphale_.”

But he was already on the kerb, and Crowley set a stack of cash in the baffled cabbie's fist for somehow arriving four streets over in two-point-seven seconds. 

The street itself was empty, lined with cars and grime-dark snow, and Aziraphale glowed underneath the streetlamps. Crowley was being led, being made to follow Aziraphale to the mouth of a dark alley that was definitely _not_ the direction the party was in. 

“It’s a gathering of academics if you must know,” Aziraphale said, strolling with his arms behind his back as a light dusting of snow swirled around them. “Professors of religion and fellow rare book dealers, but thankfully not an official conference.” 

“Yeah so?” Crowley said, side-eyeing him. “These things stopped being fun years ago when socialites stopped doing coke at parties. What is _actually_ going on?” 

In an instant, Aziraphale had the lapels of Crowley’s jacket in his fists, and he pushed him back to the wall of the alley, forearms pinning his chest, and mouth mere inches from his. 

The rough brick dug into Crowley’s back, uneven stones hitting all the pressure points in his spine, and he gaped, mind having temporarily disconnected. 

“Tell me your word, Crowley.” 

Oh. _Oh_. 

“ _Angel_.” 

“That’s not what I asked.”

Crowley’s mouth clicked shut, swallowing another false protest with a whine. He took a moment, desire bleeding into his very essence like warm water down his back. When he spoke again, it was less surprised, and far more distant, floating in a completely different galaxy. “Vega.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up, dazzlingly proud and sinfully pleased, slotting a leg in-between Crowley’s. “Thank you, my dear. Now then, let’s go over some rules for the party.” 

Crowley sunk a little deeper, squirming a bit against the elbows digging into his ribs. “Yeah, yeah, okay.” 

“No tempting tonight, and no provoking fights, arguments or debates. We are to be unobtrusive and polite guests.” 

Crowley resisted the urge to sneer, because those weren’t the fun kind of rules, like ‘ _adhere to my every request_ ’ or ‘ _don’t come no matter what I do to you_.’ 

He scowled at the ground instead, and muttered: “Don't do so well as one of those.” 

Aziraphale urged him to look up, nose brushing his. “Oh, but you _want_ to do well for me, don't you? I wouldn’t ask it of you if I didn’t think you could do it.” 

It dripped down his spine, the warmth of trust and submission: the low expectations, the easy praise, the desire to please — Crowley breathed out, breath curling visible between them in the cold night, and his expression softened. “Yes, angel.” 

Aziraphale’s smile was the same one he wore when he played chess: one of a strategy about to pay off. “Perfect, thank you.” 

Crowley was eager now, seeing that smile, playing along, and his mouth jumped ahead of his mind. “What else?” 

“What?” 

“What else do you want me to do?” Crowley’s voice broke a little, pitching up. “I could make you feel good, find a closet—“ 

“Your imagination is running away with you, Crowley. There will be nothing of the sort.” Aziraphale said, and he stepped away, the heat of his body leaving with him, making Crowley stand alone against the wall, shivering. The tone of the game changed. 

“But—“ 

Aziraphale wasn’t looking at him, fussing with his cuff link instead, an obvious ploy to dismiss him and _bless_ him because it _worked_. “I don’t know why you think I’d even have plans. This was just to make sure you behaved.” 

At this, the ploy dropped, and Aziraphale raised his head to look into his eyes, cutting Crowley to the core. “You will behave, won’t you?” 

Crowley let his head thunk back against the wall with a muffled whine, his knees threatening to fail him. 

“ _Anthony_.” 

Aziraphale was being unusually strict, which just further assured Crowley that he _did_ have plans and that they would be more intense than their usual dance. He was being tested somewhere, but he couldn’t pinpoint where quite yet. 

“ _Yesss_ , yes okay.” The words tasted like winter and wet brick under his palms and white-knuckled pleasure in his stomach. 

There was an expectant stare, one raised eyebrow. “Shall we?” 

Crowley peeled himself away from the wall, and ambled over, holding out his arm for Aziraphale to take. He melted a little further at the pleased glance he was given. _The perfect gentleman._

“Oh,” came the easy tone, casual as anything. “And do try to be more eloquent around other people, dear. There are other parties in Soho better suited for your silence than this one.” 

“Wh—” Crowley did a double-take, and then promptly swallowed the choked-out sound. 

“Bet they’d let you do anything in _those_ closets,” he grumbled quietly, and the weight of Aziraphale’s hand burned hot through his jacket. 

“A theory to test later, I suppose.” 

Walking arm in arm in a crowded house party never went well, but after they separated, Crowley knew better than to wander. He became a tall striking shadow at Aziraphale’s elbow instead, hovering the way most people do when they were the plus one. 

“You look rather pent up, my dear,” Aziraphale said, after endless introductions and light chatter. They had finally found a corner near a charcuterie board, which Aziraphale may or may not have been guarding for himself. 

“Can’t imagine why,” Crowley said through gritted teeth as he leaned closer, bending the rules of that careful sparse distance between them. No one paid them any mind. 

Aziraphale arched one brow as he held up a cracker from the board, goat cheese and a honeyed almond perfectly balanced on top. “Try a bit of this, won’t you? It’s delightfully soft.”

It was very clear by his tone that the hands artfully tucked in his front pockets were supposed to stay _right_ where they were, thank you, and the cracker was held up to Crowley's lips as he glared at Aziraphale through his glasses. 

Crowley opened his mouth and took the offered bite— because he wasn’t going to be a brat when he had been so clearly told to behave— but he didn’t have to be _happy about it._

“You can’t distract me,” he said after swallowing. 

Aziraphale, on the other hand, was increasingly smug. “Oh, can’t I?” 

He was being wound up, and Crowley’s fingers itched with the excess energy. “I know you’re up to something,” he murmured. “You do have a plan, no matter what you say.” 

“Ah, yes,” Aziraphale sniffed, sarcasm having improved over the millennia. “And you would like to know about it, would you?” 

“Yesssss,” Crowley rolled his eyes, a little impatient, weight shifting from one hip to the other. “Obviously.” 

“That’s rather presumptuous, thinking you get to demand things of me like that.” 

_Oh_ , that was a hook into a scene if he ever saw it. 

Crowley stilled, the snake in him coiled and careful, but stuttering excess energy pooled on his tongue instead. 

“I just— it’s just that— I want to _know_ ,” and it wasn’t a pout, it _wasn’t_. His voice was pitched lower, softer, barely a whisper. “I just want to know what you’re going to do to me.” 

Aziraphale reached up to cup his cheek, a burning point of contact. “I don’t think you need to worry about that.” 

It was cheery and kind and _knowing_. It was his _human_ voice, his ‘I know best’ voice, and Crowley _melted_ into it, a little mortified but more than a little shameless. When he finally found the words to speak, it was with a submissive’s whine. “Please? Just a hint?”

 _What are my orders?_

He had a script with no stage direction, a few careful clues: he was clever, he had his suspicions, but he needed Aziraphale to say the words, confirm what they were doing. He needed to confirm that they were tapping into a fantasy they had talked about weeks before, one that Crowley had _wanked_ over—

Aziraphale smiled, and it was oh-so kind. “I think you should only worry about enjoying yourself. They have a rather nice collection of Merlot here, so I’ve heard.” 

Crowley flushed down to his toes. It was casual, it was too normal, and it was undoubtedly an order. 

The pieces clicked into place. Their eyes met. 

“And you?” Crowley asked lowly, carefully. “Are you going to… _enjoy_ yourself?” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale replied, and it was decisive and soothing all at once, drawing out the syllables. “ _Immensely_.” 

“Okay,” Crowley said, breathless and nervous and so turned on he was getting a little dizzy. “Right-o. Off to, go- go do that.”

Crowley shifted to move away, eager flustered energy rolling off him in waves, but then Aziraphale’s hand darted from his cheek to his ear, pinching it between his fingers to tug him back, tug him closer, like a misbehaving child. 

“You’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you?” It was an absent question, but the battleship-grey of his eyes were steady, and Crowley _trembled_ under the force of them. 

“Anything,” Crowley breathed, because he would, when they were like this. “I would supplicate myself before you if you told me to.” 

The blasphemy made Aziraphale’s eyes darken, and time seemed to melt in slow motion, the party dimming around them. 

“Oh darling,” came the reply. “You should know better than to make promises like that.”

Like the shock of the holy rain, with an inhale of metallic-tinted air, Aziraphale moved on to talk to some sharp-tongued woman Crowley vaguely recognized, and Crowley was now alone in the corner. 

It was a reprieve. It was torture. 

Crowley was a salt-tipped sailor, jaded by the storm grey seas he loved without question. He had his palm up against a cold steel wall of grace, and even that felt like a mistake. He was battleship brittle, bashed on the rocky shores if not for the sight of the lighthouse, the center of his universe— his anchor when he was adrift in his headspace, and his guiding light home when he was lost. 

Crowley was also, admittedly, a bit of a tragic poet when he drank. 

Crowley took another sip of his wine, thick and sour in his mouth. He had been staring off and lurking in a new, darker corner, composing poetry in his head, and he took stock of himself. He was warm and comfortably numb, touch simultaneously amplified and dampened. 

He’d had two different types of wine, or he had four bottles of the same kind, but either way, the wine did not match the label he’d started with as he poured himself another glass. The worst part was that he still _ached_ all over, itchy and needy and wanting nothing more than to sink to his knees and _forget_ about anything else but the warmth curling through his limbs.

He wanted to be mindless, he wanted to chase the feeling all the way down and sink into something low and primal and most of all he wanted Aziraphale to _make him_ do it. He wanted to be unmade, to be taken apart and unravelled into nothing more than a shaking mess: into his husband’s mouthy toy to use and covet and _praise_. 

And most of all he wanted to be seen. Aziraphale continued to ignore him. 

It wasn’t _rejection_ necessarily, but a temptation, one so strong that Crowley felt raw from it. He was being teased, following the carrot at the end of the stick, knowing that the stick was there— and he played along, mouth-watering, throat tight. 

He shifted his weight, leaning against the wall, and he pictured having his mouth forced open, fingers on his tongue— he pictured and remembered and _felt_ how good, how blissed out it felt to have Aziraphale’s cock down his throat, and his jaw _ached_ without it. 

Crowley pushed his back further into the wall, shifting miserably as his cunt throbbed, desperate to be touched. The daydream morphed into soft celestial-metallic fingers stroking his tongue, invasive as they forced his body to crumble to his knees. 

There were certain places in Soho that would let them do anything— that would let heavy-thunderous hands fist in his hair and push his head back against the wall, sliding a cock into his willing throat. Certain parties that would let Aziraphale do _anything_ to him—

A pop of a champagne cork nearby brought him out of the daydream, laughter following with it, and Crowley _swayed_ , legs unsteady and lips numb. 

There was only wine in his stomach, and it sloshed when he moved, and he felt empty and hollow and secure in the knowledge that he was steadily veering towards drunk, if not already there.

He knew where his husband was at all times, except, of course, when he didn’t. 

No one paid attention to him since Aziraphale had left, and that had most likely been intentional too, and Crowley looked down at his empty glass and followed the impulsive urge to go cause trouble by the drink table.

Aziraphale had said to be polite and civil towards the _guests—_ this was a different kind of mischief.

He fell into a rhythm as he stumbled towards the makeshift bar, his focus on his newfound goal. Lower the potency on one thing, switch all the wine labels around, melt all the ice in the cooler—

There was a steady hand on his hip, warm and solid and urging him to the side. “That’s enough of that.” 

It brought Crowley back to himself with startling clarity, and he jumped a little, finally raising his head to look, already knowing— and he grinned, a wide cheeky grin, because his favorite person in the world was here and _wow_ , wasn’t he a little drunk? 

“ _Hel-lo_ Angel,” he sang, trying to be smooth, and not even trying to hide the fact that he was pleased with being caught. He spared a second to mourn his wine glass that had been left behind on the table as the steady hands led them— led him to—

He wasn’t sure where they were, his internal map of the house foggy at best, but he did know that they were in a stairwell between rooms, and that it was conveniently empty. 

The room spun, lights blurring together, and he whined as Aziraphale pinned him to the wall _again_ , one hand on his hip, the other going directly over his mouth. 

“Do you know what I’m going to do to you?” 

Crowley’s entire body _shuddered_. He was pinned, muffled whimpers all he could do under the force of it, his hazy drunk mind a little slow, especially when all the blood had gone between his legs, making him clench on nothing. 

Aziraphale’s breath was warm where it touched the shell of his ear. “I’m going to take advantage of you.” 

The words vibrated and coiled in his chest, making him dizzy, and he rocked his hips against Aziraphale’s thigh, needing friction. 

The _‘please’_ was muffled against the hand over his mouth, and Aziraphale raised an eyebrow as he lifted the hand a few centimeters. “Please what?” 

It was a guiding phrase, a redirection back towards the game they were playing, and Crowley corrected himself. 

And he absolutely did not whimper.

“ _Please don’t._ ” 

The hand gripped his jaw instead, manhandling him as Aziraphale placed a biting kiss below his ear. “You said you’d do anything for me, didn't you?” 

Crowley tried to shake his head, feeling heavy and weighed down. “I’m too drunk, I can’t please you like this.” 

“Your body can please me just fine.” 

Crowley was wet. He could feel it, could feel it soaking into his boxers, the way he dripped at every word and moaned at the dark hickey on his neck. 

“N-no,” he was stuttering now, or slurring, he wasn’t sure which. “Jus’ drop me off at my flat.” 

“I don’t think so, not when you’ve teased me all night, tempting me. Especially when I told you not to.” 

“Not on purpose, never,” he said back, and it was a petulant thing, but with a pleading edge. “Please, I’ll do better tomorrow. Do anything you want tomorrow.” 

“No,” Aziraphale said into his temple, and the hand on Crowley’s hip slid inwards, thumbing at the button of his jeans. “You’ll do better _tonight_.” 

Crowley could feel hot, insistent fingers through his shirt, pressing into his stomach, and he trembled, nearly collapsing into the embrace instead of fighting against it. 

“Why don’t you go fetch your coat hmm?” It was a transition, an order, and a check-in all at once, and Crowley could properly breathe again as Aziraphale stepped away, but the urge to sink to his knees and sink down down _down_ into subspace hit him hard. 

Crowley was foggy and warm, and aching and a little scared in a way that made him want to beg, but he did as he was told and stumbled over to the hall closet, off-balance in more ways than one. 

“Look at you, you poor thing,” Aziraphale fretted, and it was said in all the same tones he would use to describe a rather pathetic stray dog, and it sent a shiver of humiliation down his spine. Crowley loved and loathed him for it. “You’re no use to anyone in this state, we should get you home.” 

They were innocent enough words, but no, not really, and they made the already difficult task of getting his fingers to work that much harder, and Crowley fumbled as he grabbed at a random hanger, his coat appearing obediently on it. 

Crowley felt heavy, body uncooperative. It took a concerted effort of his limbs to put on his coat the human way, but Aziraphale’s searing-affectionate smile just made him want to trip over his own feet again, in a love-sick puppy-dog way. 

He was pathetic, he was pathetic and desperate and _loved_ and as Aziraphale put an arm around him to lead him out, Crowley stuck his face in the crook of his neck to hide his smile. 

“Knew you had a plan,” Crowley mumbled, still smiling. Now he couldn’t seem to stop, his sharp teeth bared on a wine-numb face. “Figured you out.”

“That you did,” Aziraphale softened for a moment, hand raised as if to hail a cab, but actually to summon one into the empty street. “Clever boy.” 

It was easy praise, easy to take when his defenses were down, and he tried to curl closer, pushing his cold nose into Aziraphale’s neck. 

An empty taxicab with a driver _very_ focused on his radio program suddenly pulled up beside them. 

“M the sailor and you’re the lighthouse,” Crowley mumbled insistently as Aziraphale folded his wine-soaked limbs into the cab. 

“Is that so?” 

Crowley nodded, brainpower suddenly focused on trying to remember what bug really liked big lights. “Like to a flame. Attraction.” 

The moment Aziraphale was settled into his seat, directions given, Crowley went back to cuddling close. “Gonna burn. Crash on your shores.”

He felt Aziraphale’s heartbeat under his head, and felt comfort in it. His husband's voice was pitched low and soft, sincere in its tenderness. “I wouldn’t let you crash.” 

He blearily watched as Aziraphale placed his hand on his thigh like he had earlier that night, and he grinned to himself as it swayed to the left when they rounded a corner. He was drunk, and Aziraphale was touching him, and it made him giddy to be loved so. 

It was then that Crowley realized they had strayed from the scene, and that it was probably his fault because he was— as was the point— _very_ drunk, and as nice as it was to have these moments, he wanted to make his kinks very known.

“I wan’ you to take me,” he whispered it like a secret, blunt and breathless into Aziraphale’s jaw.

Aziraphale shifted, placing a kiss onto the top of his head. “I know darling, you just want to be the newest curio in my collection don’t you?” 

Crowley _loved_ those little lines, the way they could hook him under into a headspace without any effort at all. 

“Hoarder,” he accused, still whispering, still swaying, and the urge to coil around Aziraphale was strong. But the point was to be afraid, and Crowley needed to give himself a reason to be. “I don’t belong to you, you know.” 

Aziraphale’s chest rumbled under his head. “You’re absolutely sure of that, are you?” 

Crowley forced himself to lean away from that warmth, bracing himself in the corner, and shivered with the knowledge that he was only able to do so because Aziraphale let him. 

“Rough up all the pieces in your collection do you?” He said, not entirely sure what direction he was taking the sentence but following the inebriated detour signs anyway. “Sadistic bastard.” 

“Oh, you need it badly don’t you?” Aziraphale tutted, near sympathetic. “I’ve been neglecting you, and you’re lashing out, bratty thing you are.” 

“I—“ Crowley croaked, doing a about-turn so fast the wheels of his mental Bentley came off the ground. “I- _no_ , that’s not—“ 

“Yes yes I know you need it love,” and the hand on his thigh pet his inseam reassuringly, as if Crowley had begged instead of protested. “We just had to make you more _agreeable_. Isn’t that right?”

Crowley’s whole body _throbbed_ , and he flushed, leaning further into the door. He squinted through his glasses, focusing on the familiar streets outside the window. 

“No,” he replied late, voice pathetically small, and he tried to shake his head, but it just made everything spin. “I can’t— jus’ drop me off.” 

Aziraphale’s face was made unreadable by the dark interior of the cab, but the words rang clear. “I can walk you inside.” 

“No,” Crowley said immediately, more insistent, and he pawed at the hand on his thigh, trying to push it away, and felt nails dig into his skin. “I can take care of yourself. Myself.” 

The cab slowed to a stop in front of his building, and Crowley fumbled for the door handle while Aziraphale paid, hoping to make his escape. 

The handle wouldn’t budge. 

He pulled at it twice more, a sharp spike of fear caught in his throat. The door behind him opened and shut, and he froze as Aziraphale came around the cab to hold the door for him. 

He braced himself, pouring out of the cab, but he still somehow landed in Aziraphale’s arms, who held him up with an arm around his waist, making it impossible to pull away. 

“You’re shivering, poor dear.” Aziraphale fretted, sounding all the world like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “Let’s get you warmed up.” 

“No- I can- I can get in my own damn flat just fine.” He was digging his heels in, but considering how rubbery they seemed to be whenever he tried, it apparently wasn’t working. 

“Did you really think I was going to let you go home alone when you’re like this? When you’re two seconds from hitting the pavement? I expected more from you.”

Crowley sucked in a harsh breath, sweat beginning to cling to his collar, and he found himself being herded in wobbly steps toward his building. The door was unlocked when Aziraphale reached for it, and the harsh clean lighting of the lobby made Crowley wince, polished linoleum swirling under his feet. 

“A- _angel_ ,” Crowley tripped over his words, his tongue curling thick in his suddenly-dry mouth. “My building usually has a doorman.”

Aziraphale’s grip on his waist pulled him towards the lift, his voice light with barely contained amusement; darker and more pointed than usual. “Does it now?” 

The fear in his chest was heavy. “What did you do?” 

“I had to preserve your dignity dear, I couldn’t let anyone see you like this,” Aziraphale was turning up the sweetness, as logical and efficient as a double-edged sword. “Just think of your reputation.” 

The moment the doors closed on them, Crowley expected Aziraphale to pounce, but he just kept him upright as the lift lurched into motion, making his stomach lurch with it. “Steady on,” Aziraphale said in his ear. “I’ve got you.” 

The hand on his waist slid to the middle of his back, and then lower, hot and possessive in the back pocket of his jeans. 

“Angel,” Crowley felt small, cornered, and his heart was loud in his chest. “Stop.” 

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to be more specific darling, I wasn’t aware that I was doing anything.” 

“Y-you are,” he was choking now. “You gave your cards away. Just-- just let me sleep this off.” 

_Was this elevator always this slow? The lights always this dim?_

Aziraphale leaned closer to kiss Crowley’s temple, and then stayed, his other hand coming up to cradle the crook of his neck and shoulder, thumb brushing over his pulse. The hand on his arse completed the picture, crowding and caging him in a loving embrace. “Don’t you want your reward for behaving at the party?” 

Crowley fumbled for a response, a little distressed by how caught he was between fear and desire; between pushing Aziraphale away with heavy-numb hands and pulling closer, to be drawn into a dangerous, beautiful flame. 

“Moths,” he muttered as lips grazed his skin, and Aziraphale’s laugh was a puff of warm air on his neck as the lift finally made it to the top. Crowley’s wet lips parted, his wet crotch chafing from going pantless under his jeans. “Like a moth to a flame.” 

Aziraphale stepped away, fully, and it made him gasp, made Crowley’s eyes dart to side as the doors opened, but he didn’t even make it half a step.

His vision blurred sideways, watercolor vertigo as Aziraphale picked him up and _threw him over his shoulder_. The hallway swayed dangerously as Crowley let out a sharp yelp, Aziraphale’s shoulder digging into his hips, his sunglasses falling to the plush carpeted floor. “Wait— please hold on—” 

Aziraphale ignored him. 

Crowley was pretty sure he was humming. 

“Fuck,” he swore, kicking weakly. “Angel _stop_.” 

Aziraphale didn’t, not until they got to the end of the hallway, and Crowley’s wriggling got more intense. “Yep, here we are, my stop. You’ve reached the end of the line. Let me off, mind the gap—” 

“In a moment,” Aziraphale hummed as he reached for the door handle. Crowley curled his hands into the back of Aziraphale’s jacket, and _concentrated_. 

The wards around his apartment pulsed, and the door remained closed. 

Aziraphale’s voice was low, too casual to be anything but a warning. “Crowley.”

“Z’iraphale,” He tried for the same casual tone, but a hiss found its way into his slur and got tangled, which surely didn’t guarantee any points in his favour. Aziraphale _hated it_ when his name was mispronounced. 

“Would you kindly open the door?”

Crowley thought briefly of vampires and being invited in, “N-no.” 

“I’m afraid I must insist.” Aziraphale’s voice had taken an odd lilt to it, and Crowley had heard it often enough to recognize it as the voice he used when faced with a particularly persistent customer.

“Well I must _insissst_ ,” he responded, because he was, at heart, a bit of a brat. “That you put me down and go home.” 

Aziraphale’s sigh was long-suffering. “I really should’ve expected this. You’ve always made it a habit to make things more difficult for yourself.” 

“Do not,” but it was petulant at best, and he gave the full-body thrash of a snake, trying to break Aziraphale’s hold. “I’m not letting you in just so you— so you can—” He cut himself off, something in his chest choosing to curl up into a ball of shame rather than say the words out loud. 

There was a long pause, the blood rushing through Crowley’s ears from being upside down for so long.

“I could have you here I suppose,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley made a sharp sound. “Up against your door where anyone could see.” 

“You—” Crowley was _really_ starting to get dizzy now, his hair coming loose from his bun, and he panted, panic flooding back into his system as he scrambled for some semblance of control. “I’ll scream Angel, I swear I will.” 

“No one would hear you love, nor come to your aid. I guarantee it.” Aziraphale placed his hand on the wood, a faint glow emanating from his palm. 

Crowley fought the angelic compulsion with a dry mouth and bleary eyes, but slowly the circles of runes shifted and turned. Like the gears of a clock, they spun, bending under the equivalent of a celestial lockpick, and Crowley’s hold over them broke as he collapsed from the mental strain, the deadbolt unlocking with a foreboding click. 

“Oh, would you look at that,” Aziraphale said with self-satisfaction. “Those wards weren’t particularly strong after all.” 

Crowley was carried over the threshold and into his flat, heart in his throat. The heavy door slammed shut behind them, as his eyes adjusted to the dark. Aziraphale didn’t even bother with the lights but instead deposited Crowley on the couch. 

“There we are.” A hand on his chest told Crowley in no uncertain terms to _stay_ , but then Aziraphale turned and took off his overcoat, before he reached up to undo his tie. 

Being released was like a breath of air in his lungs, and Crowley surged up and off the couch, flinging himself back towards the entryway, looking for an escape route. 

Aziraphale's voice floated through the darkness. “I think I’m getting rather tired of your antics, dearest.” 

The front door was locked, he didn’t know what he expected— the wards were now under Aziraphale’s control, but still, he tried, for a few precious, frantic seconds before his brain caught up and he scrambled back to the living room, hoping to find a way deeper into the flat where he could hide. 

Aziraphale hadn’t moved, facing away from him as he shed his layers, draping them carefully on the couch. The blue-grey light of the city in nighttime drew long shadows over the room, and Aziraphale was bathed in it, rolling up his sleeves in precise steady movements, and Crowley, for a moment, was _enraptured_. 

And then Aziraphale turned. And he smiled. His eyes raked up and down Crowley’s body, and his smile gained the edge of a possessive _smirk_. 

Crowley bolted. 

He didn’t have many options, because for _some blessed reason_ he didn’t have many doors, the open floor plan of his flat working against him. He avoided his plant room, turning down the hallway— and then he tripped, stumbled, whether through his own drunkenness or divine intervention he wasn’t sure, but he fell in a heap all the same, all stinging palms and bruised bones, disoriented for a second too long as quick footsteps approached, and Crowley was suddenly staring at neat brown oxfords. 

“Oh, that was quite a tumble wasn’t it?” Aziraphale said, and the concern sounded real enough as he knelt beside him.

“You really must be more careful,” his words became softer as Aziraphale’s own headspace faded, and he took one of Crowley’s hands to inspect, face growing pinched. “Are you sure you don’t want to sober up?” 

Crowley swallowed heavily as his palm was kissed, and he shook his head, a little overwhelmed from the adrenaline still humming under his skin. 

“M’good. Don’t wanna stop,” he mumbled, equally soft as they took a breath, and the moment stretched out between them.

The hand tightened around his wrist. “Let’s get you to bed then.” 

Crowley wobbled, resisting as Aziraphale manhandled him to his feet— but with a snap, they were in Crowley's bedroom, apparently not wanting to risk moving there manually, and the back of his knees hit the bed as he was pushed into the sheets. 

Crowley was pinned yet again, only this time there was no pretense, no pretty words against an alley or a wall. There was only Aziraphale’s mouth on his, an elbow to his chest, hands tight on his jaw and hip. 

Crowley’s coat was miracled away— his socks and slush-covered boots fell to the floor. They were a tangle of struggling limbs as Crowley pushed back, jerking his head away from the kiss in a way that only served to offer his throat as a feast, and his scarf was pulled away by hand, Aziraphale taking the time to dig dark bruising bites into his skin. 

Crowley shifted and squirmed under the intensity of it, spine arching up, small sounds spilling from his mouth: trembling sighs and painful cries and mortified, _helpless_ , moans. 

“I thought about this quite often you know,” Aziraphale whispered, and he was slightly out of breath from the marks he had made, from the effort of keeping Crowley down, and it gave his words a feral edge to them, despite how calculating they were. His hands pressed hard onto Crowley’s collarbone as he sat up, resting his full weight on Crowley’s chest. 

Crowley tried to roll, to buck his hips and shoulders in a way that should be natural— but fighting never did come naturally to him, especially now when his body and mind were disjointed, his movements sluggish and delayed from the wine. His hands came up instead, trying to push up and alleviate the pressure on his chest; trying to protect the bones that Aziraphale could snap without a second thought. 

“I loved getting you drunk, did you know that?” Aziraphale said in his ear. “Before, it was the only time you let me see your eyes. I became rather addicted to it, to the habit that let me taste red and see gold.”

“You— on _purpose_?” His head fell back, too heavy for his neck, and Crowley’s words, while pitched up, were on the edge of a whimper. 

“I thought of this every time you spread yourself out on my chaise,” and Aziraphale used his free hand to untuck Crowley’s shirt, dragging his hand up and under it. “In my back room, in all of your flats across the years, in that villa in Spain, and on that beach in Greece…” 

Crowley shivered as his shirt vanished with another rough drag of Aziraphale’s hand across his skin. He pushed again at the hand on his chest. “Hurts,” He said, but it was all he said, and Aziraphale ignored him. 

“How many times have I seen you so open, so vulnerable under the moonlight?” Aziraphale asked as his hand drifted down his stomach, dragging across his hip, exploring, _claiming_ all it touched. “Do you know how many times I had to restrain myself from seeking you out, from giving you the pleasure you so obviously desired?” 

Crowley’s jeans went in the same way his shirt did, with a rough palm up the outside of his thigh, and suddenly he was naked underneath Aziraphale, and it hit him all at once, a sudden spike of adrenaline and a fresh wave of tears that got stuck in his throat. “But I—“

Aziraphale’s eyes burned as they swept over his body, dark and dangerous in the low light, reflecting unnatural holiness of something not quite human. “No longer dear. _No longer_ will I deny either of us. And you’re just as beautiful as I thought you would be.”

Crowley shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut, heart dropping in his chest as the possibility of escape became less and less likely, and he gasped as the hand on his chest relented, as blunt nails scratched his scalp instead, thick fingers tangling in his hair and _yanking_ his head back. “Look at me, Crowley. I want to see those gorgeous eyes of yours as I take you.” 

Crowley’s mouth fell open with a wordless cry, shaking on a sob, but he did as he was told, looking up through watery lashes. “ _Aziraphale—_ “ 

“There we are, darling boy,” Aziraphale soothed as gentle, _too gentle_ fingers trailed up his inner thigh. “I promise I’m going to make you feel good, you just have to let me.” 

Crowley tried to jerk back away from his hand, drawing a knee up to try and close his legs, but Aziraphale’s grip on his hair was tight, and his presence between his legs unyielding, so as Aziraphale’s fingers trailed over the folds of his labia, Crowley readjusted his knee, aimed, and kicked out at Aziraphale’s head.

He mostly missed, his heel hitting and then glancing off of Aziraphale’s shoulder. It was enough to catch Aziraphale by surprise as both of his hands left Crowley’s body to keep his balance. Crowley scrambled to sit up, wobbling on hands and knees to crawl off the bed— but he lurched to the side, wine hitting him again in an uncomfortable blur, and his arms folded out from underneath him.

Aziraphale gripped his ankle, strong fingers on delicate bone. He had been a swordsman, once.

“Come now,” Aziraphale said, sounding entirely too reasonable as he dragged Crowley back to the center of the bed. He left Crowley on his belly, a hand pressed into the center of his back, keeping him still. “I wasn’t asking for much. All I wanted was for you to lay back and enjoy yourself.” 

A moment of incredulity broke through his panic, and Crowley unsuccessfully tried to twist his head to look over his shoulder. _“Enjoy myself?”_

The smile in Aziraphale’s voice had the edge of a _leer_. “But you are enjoying yourself, aren’t you love? You’re so wet for me I can _hear it_.” 

Crowley froze, and hot shame crashed through him like a wave. He let it in, fingers curling in the sheets as he tried to catch his breath, his heart hammering a throbbing beat. “No, that’s not—“ he denied, trying to crawl away. The hand on his back pushed down harder on his spine, the bed creaking below them with the force of it, and Crowley was well and truly pinned. 

“Just hear these lovely slick thighs.” Aziraphale ran his hand up the back of one, before taking it and pushing it up to the side, spreading him out, and to his mortification, Crowley could hear that he was _right_ , soaked skin suddenly loud in the dark room as his thighs were forced apart. 

Aziraphale settled between them, pressing close, and Crowley could feel the outline of his cock through his pants. The contact made him jump, wire-hot, and second hand joined the first on his back, warm and big over his ribs. 

“Wings out please.” 

Crowley couldn’t move, forced on his stomach as he was, but still he tried to buck, a tangle of hair and elbows and tears. “No. NO, _please—_ ” 

“Crowley,” and Aziraphale’s voice got hard, pitching low and dangerous. “I know you’re not exactly in your right mind, but I thought you understood by now that _you can’t say no to me_.” Those large splayed hands tightened, pressing bruises into his skin. “Wings _out_.”

There was the sound of shifting feathers as he manifested his wings, and Crowley braced his hands on the bed and flapped then down _hard_ , gaining enough momentum to buck up to his hands and knees, wrists straining to hold himself up, trying to be quicker this time, the clever snake he was supposed to be—

But it was also ultimately futile; the moment Crowley had taken out his wings, he had given Aziraphale yet another tool to use to undo him, and Aziraphale gripped the base of his right wing and _squeezed_. 

Crowley moaned as pleasure ran through him, sensitive nerve endings flaring to life from Aziraphale’s rough touch. With an addictive sense of dread Crowley's arms gave out once again under Aziraphale’s weight, and he twitched and shook, wet cunt clenching around nothing, his body tense as sparks burst down his spine. 

There was a heartbeat of silence as Crowley resettled, and Aziraphale pet and gently straightened ruffled feathers. 

“Beautiful. Simply gorgeous,” came the compliment, heavy with implication. The last of Aziraphale’s clothes disappeared, the hot press of Aziraphale’s cock burning against his skin, and Crowley felt a thick pillow being miracled under him, keeping him at the perfect height. 

“I’m going to make you feel so good, sweetheart.” Aziraphale dug trim nails into his hip, holding Crowley in place as the head of his cock teased his folds, slick and intrusive. 

“ _No_ ,” Crowley whined, moaned, _begged_ , panting into the sheets, desperate and lewd. “Aziraphale _ssstop_ , you _c-can’t—_ “ 

“I can,” Aziraphale crooned, and his hands moved to fully pin Crowley’s wings to the bed, his palms curling possessively over fragile bone and sensitive flesh. “After all my beloved, it’s not like you can _stop me._ ” 

Aziraphale slid inside of him, hot, and _big_ , bigger than normal, and Crowley let out a helpless little sound, feathers quivering in Aziraphale’s grip. Crowley couldn’t breathe through the tears, but still his body demanded it, harsh inhales as Aziraphale took his pleasure, forcing Crowley to take all of him in one slow, _indulgent_ push. 

Aziraphale paused there, and tapped twice on one of his wings, waiting for a word or sign. 

Crowley tried to find more words of protest to keep up the game, but exhaustion, fear, and humiliation made a potent mix that rendered him mute, and he found that he had nothing else left to say. 

He went lax under Aziraphale instead, frantic wings resting on the bed in submission as he pressed his face into the mattress, and Crowley— shuddering, drunk, defeated Crowley— patted the sheets twice in response, and spread his legs a little bit wider.

“There we are,” Aziraphale praised, sounding almost _proud_. “That’s a dear. No more fighting now. All you needed was to be nice and full.” 

The hand gripping his wing relaxed, running through his feathers in a way that made Crowley’s mind go blank. He dripped onto Aziraphale’s cock, slick and exposed as Aziraphale started to _move_. 

Crowley tried to focus on breathing, but it only seemed to make it worse, the sheets of his bed swirling beneath him, eyes unfocused as the world swayed. The bed shook from hard, slow, _decadent_ thrusts. 

Aziraphale was savouring him, indulging in him: “Oh look at you sweetheart. Drunk on wine, intoxicated on your pleasure. I could do anything to you like this couldn’t I? I could be so _unbearably_ cruel to you my darling.” 

The pace certainly seemed cruel; slow dragging thrusts that lit him up inside, but not nearly fast enough. 

Crowley, with the limited leeway he had, rocked back into the thrusts. He clenched around the heavy cock inside of him, back bowing, dizzy from submission while at the same time saying: “It’s too much, I can’t—” He hiccuped, a wet and broken little liar. “I can’t _take it,_ Aziraphale _please s-stop_.” 

“You can, and you will.” A hand traveled up to fist in Crowley’s hair, the knowing smile in his voice ghosting over the back of Crowley’s neck, and he shivered as Aziraphale whispered gentle cruelty in his ear. “Always so impatient, even now.” 

He coaxed Crowley to turn his head, and Crowley slid his unfocused eyes in his direction, knowing Aziraphale loved to look at him when he was like this— face slack and mouth open, his pupils wide and dark and dazed from _rapture_. 

Aziraphale moved faster, curling over Crowley’s prone form, holding him down by his hair and wings, but Crowley’s knees started to slide from the force of it, and he struggled to push his hands against the headboard, fighting for some leverage as the fist in his hair tightened. Small moans fell from his lips as he was fucked the way he wanted, eagerly helpless and breathlessly lewd; bitten off little cries forced from his throat when the angle was just right. 

“I knew you wanted it,” came the breathless teasing, love and praise braiding into his every word, “you take me so well Crowley.” 

Aziraphale's arm reached around to brush over his mound, wedged between the pillow, and Crowley jumped at the contact, a mindless grind to get more friction. “You’re dripping onto my palm darling, can you feel it? You’re so wet it’s _indecent_.” 

Crowley gasped, and pleas tumbled from his mouth, glassy-distant eyes squeezed shut again: “Please don’t,” he begged, twisted spine shaking under the pressure. “Don’t want it, I don’t want it, _I don’t I don’t I don’t—_ “ 

It was building anyway, the orgasm coiling hot in his gut, slurred cries falling on deaf ears as thick fingers rubbed lightly over his clit. 

Crowley made a sound, high and keening and wineglass-fragile, and strained on the edge of an orgasm half-welcome, and when he crashed, he _broke_. He came soundlessly at first, and then with gasping cries, small whimpers being forced out of his raw throat with every thrust, trembling aftershocks making him clench around the cock dragging slick inside of him. 

“That’s it, love, doesn’t that feel better?” 

Crowley’s toes curled, calves tense and aching, his clit twitching from over-sensitivity as Aziraphale _kept touching him_ , almost _playing_ with him, his gentle cyanide-sweet praises whispered into the knobs of Crowley’s spine. 

Aziraphale didn’t stop fucking him, dragging wet fingers over his clit, again and again, the sound of it becoming as obscene as the way Aziraphale moaned when he came inside of him, pressed hot against Crowley’s back— and Crowley came _again_ , a leftover echo from the first, defiled and claimed and _loved_.

Crowley shuddered when Aziraphale pulled out, eyes rolling back at the feeling of being full of come, _basking_ in the spattered mess on his thighs, and he rocked back, needing that fullness again, already feeling it’s loss as come dripped down his thigh. 

He whined, sweaty and cold without Aziraphale’s solid warmth around him, and he blearily heard soothing sounds, as fingers fixed his ruffled feathers. Aftershocks made him clench and rock, pressing his aching clit into the pillow, a distant snap making his skin soft and clean again. 

Crowley shivered and de-manifested his wings when he remembered how to, and when he rolled over to cling, he found Aziraphale moving to do the same, their breaths slowing as they stayed wrapped up in each other, reality filtering back in. 

Aziraphale’s voice was rough, breaking the charged silence that had settled over them. “Darling, will you sober up for me please?” 

Crowley, halfway to passing out, pressed his face harder into Aziraphale’s skin. “Don’t wanna.” 

Aziraphale’s voice got smaller. “It would make me feel better.” 

Crowley nodded and did, rushing through it, and he blinked at the sudden onslaught of sensation that came with sobriety. He wrapped his arms tighter around his husband, as a way to comfort them both while he readjusted. 

“Don't see why we had to go to that party still.” He mumbled after a moment, and kissed the crook of Aziraphale’s neck because it was there. “Could’ve done this at home.” 

The laugh Aziraphale gave was tinged with affectionate relief, and Crowley found one of his hands, bringing it up for kisses, skin warm and soft.

“It was _setting the scene_ ,” Aziraphale replied, equally gentle. “I thought you liked a bit of theater.” 

Crowley’s fangs caught on a knuckle, gently taking his fingers between his teeth in an affectionate nibble. “Only the cheery ones.”

Aziraphale's tone was low, careful: “And was this one? Cheery, I mean.”

Crowley resisted the urge to tease further, reaching for Aziraphale’s face to reassure him with a chaste, patient kiss. “Nah, but it’s want I wanted. It was perfect.” 

Aziraphale moved to sit up, and Crowley followed, body loose and warm like sugar-sweet syrup, empty of anything but the desire to love and be loved, and he climbed into his husband's lap like it was his own private throne. 

“What do you need?” Came the whisper into his temple, followed by a kiss onto his tattoo. 

“I could really go for a glass of—“

Aziraphale gave him an unamused look. 

“Water,” Crowley grinned. “I was going to say water.” And a miracled glass was pressed into his hand. 

“Just need this,” he whispered, and burrowed deeper into their embrace. He didn’t clarify, because it would be horribly embarrassing to say _‘cuddles_.’

He took small sips of water instead, and kissed Aziraphale’s jaw with wet lips. “What do you need?” 

Arms tensed and relaxed, weighing his words. Aziraphale pressed his nose into Crowley’s hair. “Just assurance that you’re alright.” A pause. “And a distraction I think, but I don’t know what, and I don’t want to let you go quite yet.” 

Crowley hummed in acknowledgment as he took another sip, and the sleek record player in the next room came to life. Classical music floated through the flat, a melody from the 15th century that had been lost to time. “That good?”

“Oh—“ Aziraphale ran a thumb over his skin, surprised as always that Crowley knew him so well. “That’s perfect, thank you.” Fingers trailed lightly over Crowley’s knees, and Aziraphale’s fretfulness returned. “You did fall rather hard, and I know you said—“ 

“Aziraphale, it’s okay, it doesn’t even hurt.” But he held still as the blossoming bruises were healed. “S’tartled me more than anything. Would’ve said otherwise.” 

Aziraphale gathered him closer, not quite convinced, and Crowley abandoned his water on the table so that they could sink back into the sheets and duvet, which were clean with a lazy snap. 

“Did you know,” Crowley whispered as they pressed their foreheads together, legs intertwined. “That watching you roll up your sleeves was the hottest thing I have ever seen?” 

Aziraphale’s mouth dropped open in a delightful little laugh, breathless and lovely, teasing as much as he was double-checking. “So much so that you crashed into your own wall?” 

Crowley made an embarrassed noise. “I was thinking too hard about where I could hide. I’m fine really— just sorta forgot how legs worked.” He let a hint of mischief bleed into his words. “Guess you’ll just have to carry me everywhere then.” 

“Liked that too did you?” Aziraphale’s eyes were softer now, the lines of his face relaxed, and Crowley watched them fall shut under the gentle sounds of a viola. 

“I like you,” Crowley replied, soft under the cover of night; suspended in their little world. “I love you, actually.” 

Aziraphale kissed him, eyes still closed as he slotted their lips together on touch-memory alone. “I love you too, my dearest.”

Crowley fell asleep, having reached a safe harbour at last. 

**Author's Note:**

> No, Aziraphale did not trip him, in case you were worried. I had just set up a minor chase scene, realized I had nowhere to take it, and cut it short via a reasonable amount of drunk stumbling around a flat, which I totally don’t have experience with, definitely not. 
> 
> This is probably one of my favorite things I’ve written: both as catharsis for my own past issues with consent, and because it opened the door to a whole bunch of new friends, including my artist Kazeetie. Unfortunately there were unforeseen IRL issues on their side that popped up in the past month, so be sure to wish them well okay? 
> 
> Happy GOBB y’all.


End file.
